


Cracks in Grief's Stone Heart

by kayisdreaming



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: And angst, F/M, Inquizzy's not actually important he just wanted a place in it, Some mention of violence and injury, There be fluff in these parts, story's mostly the latter two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 08:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3522068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Chargers come home without their Lieutenant, everyone responds as they should. The Chargers try to recover, the Inquisition moves on, Cassandra grieves for her lost love. But perhaps the Maker isn't as merciless as He may seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracks in Grief's Stone Heart

“Cassandra.” Krem’s voice was soft as he put his hand on the sleeping Seeker’s shoulder.

She mumbled something incoherent, face pressing into her pillow. She had already curled into the spot of warmth he left behind. Though she asked he wake her, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not when she looked so at ease and unworried. With things as they were, she needed the rest.

A gentle smile on his face, he pressed a kiss to her hair before going to the desk in their room. There were a few papers scattered about, reports and notes and the like. A couple books they finished and one they would start when he returned. One of Varric’s, she told him. He was careful as he shuffled through everything, looking in the dim light for a scrap that hadn’t been written on.

Writing a bit messy from sheer inability to see, he wrote something short, as eloquent as he could manage, and endearing. He would be back within the week. He wanted her to be safe. He loved her.

 

The note was still tucked inside her glove two weeks later. It was a matter of habit now, though she no longer unfolded the scrap when her strikes began to falter, nor read the words to keep his voice in her mind. She no longer stayed late in training, looking to the gate in the hopes that he would come back. That it had been a mistake, or he got lost, or anything. She no longer left a spot open in the bed, hoping she might wake up to a tired smile and a kiss, his hair messy when he woke. She didn’t let herself wish for those things anymore.

Her grieving was done. People died all the time. They were in war against things that were impossible to believe. Templars, mages, demons, Darkspawn—casualties were inevitable. It only made sense that he was gone, too. He hadn’t been in the Maker’s favor. It happened.

At least she reminded herself of that as she took out her grief on the training dummies. If she neglected her work, let herself be distracted, then more would die. More would follow his footsteps. If she exhausted herself, grief couldn’t seep in. The distraction that might kill more men—perhaps even the Inquisitor—couldn’t rest within her if she lacked the energy to allow it. Eventually, if she worked hard enough, grief would no longer try to visit her, it wouldn’t bring her false hope, and she could go back to normal.

It wasn’t fair, but it hadn’t been unexpected of the Lieutenant. It was supposed to be simple, or at least he told her as much. Go to Adamant, destroy what was left. Keep the Fade from seeping in, or the Venatori from making a new base, or something. If they were quick enough, nothing else would have settled in. Their demolitionist could do what he’d do best. A week at most, more than half of it travel. That was what he told her, her back resting against his front, his arms around her as he held the book, leaving her to turn the pages as she read. He teased her for her worry, disregarded it.

She wondered if he even considered it, faced against more demons than they had anticipated. Or against the Venatori, who still had some handle on the creatures. In the report, Dalish stated that the demons hadn’t been problematic, though they were tiring. It was when Adamant fell that things had gone wrong. Nearby Venatori sects charged in. The Chargers were nearly surrounded; trapped. It was then that Krem sacrificed himself for his men. Served as a distraction as the rest fled to an area where they could recover and get assistance. Two days passed before they were well enough to fight, to go in and remove the remaining Venatori with the soldiers from camp. Still a hard fight, but handled. The Chargers always finished their jobs. Even without their Lieutenant, even with no signs of him—they could only assume he had become an abomination, a victim of Venatori blood magic when left to fend for himself. One of the many they had killed.

The Chargers were still recovering. The tavern was quiet for the week. Bull asked for a reprieve from escorting the Inquisitor—knowing his men needed something stable. They needed a new Lieutenant, someone who could be aware and keep them as together as Krem had. Someone who could look out for them as much. Someone who balanced out Bull. Most assumed it would be a while until anyone would fit, though there was still business to do.

Bull didn’t say anything. He hardly ever did speak on what he was actually thinking and feeling, but this was different. Krem had been his second, his friend. Cassandra knew he must have been hurting, even as he returned to work and killed wyverns and was his generally reckless self.

Or perhaps she was just projecting, thinking that her hurt must have been indicative of the others. By now it was fading, hardening, becoming more of a wall than a wound. She would recover. The Inquisition needed is members at their best. At worst, she could take Bull’s example.

“You’re going to exhaust yourself.” Inquisitor Trevelyan noted, leaning against one of the training dummies. One of the three that Cassandra hadn’t completely mauled.

“I believe that’s the point, Inquisitor.” She said, glancing up at him.

“I mean that you’ll drop dead.” He said, sighing before looking over Skyhold. He had a lot to look after, and she couldn’t fathom why he focused on her. She was fine, she was recovering; it was not her who needed help. Not when there were others dying all the time. He could console the Chargers or Bull or.

“I’ll be fine.” She insisted, her blade nearly cleaving her current target in two.

“At this rate—“ his voice turned to somewhat jarring as he cut himself off, followed only by a breathy “Maker’s breath.”

Letting out a sigh, Cassandra looked to the Inquisitor, not appreciating his attempt at distraction. But he looked startled, stunned. Probably the same look on his face as if he met Andraste herself. Well, considering. Allowing curiosity, she followed his gaze.

The sight made her drop her sword. A figure stood at the gate; in one hand he bore his sword, though the blade had been dulled and sullied from relying on it as his support. The tip was broken, the edges crusted with old blood. With his other hand he tried to push away from the wall he supported himself on, though it seemed he lacked the energy and could only lean against it. His leather armor was darkened with blood, his wounds only visible by a sort of weak attempt at being patched up. The metal of his armor was in quite a state, some of the chainmail shorn off and his breastplace dented and battered. Hair matted to his head in a mixture of blood and sweat, he breathed heavily, legs shaky and looking as if they could hardly support him.

She felt empty, even as she ran to catch him as his legs gave out. Empty as she lifted him in her arms, old blood brushing against and staining her clothes. Empty as she sat in the room as the healers tended to him, prying away the layers and dealing with the damage. They muttered that the wounds were severe, that there was no guarantee that a healer might help. He was hurt, starved, and exhausted—in the simplest manner. Any one was in the range where it might kill him.

It was days before they actually spoke to her in any terms other than the desire for her to leave. They told her that it was going to be hard, but he would live. He would need a long time to recover but, Maker willing, he would. She thanked them, and they left to inform the others still curiously waiting.

Finally allowed at his side, she ran her fingers through his hair. It wasn’t crusted with sweat or blood anymore, but it was still tangled, oily. Different than the soft hair she normally curled her fingers into. He was pale, making him look more dead than asleep. Cracked lips parted slightly for soft breaths, dark circles under slightly-fluttering eyelashes. Was he dreaming?

Her hands moved to lightly cup his cheek, so pale compared to her hand, before brushing along his collarbone, down his arms. Ensuring he was real, that he was there. That this wasn’t some illusion, some nightmare that mocked her in her waking hours. She avoided the bandaged injuries before her fingers found his. His knuckles were bruised, the cuts still healing. But it was one of the most intact places on him.

He was real, she realized as she fell to her knees besides his bed. He was here, she knew as she brought his hand to her lips. And he was alive, she muttered, as she finally let herself sob in the sheer relief.

It was a day later when she, lightly brushing her thumbs over his hand in an idle and comforting gesture, found his other hand on her cheek. The movement made him grunt in discomfort, but it was impossible to tell if it was the noise or the contact that drew her attention first.

“I made it.” He said, voice scratchy and hoarse. He made a face, probably aware of how bad it was.

She was stunned, head empty. One of her hands instinctively went up to cover his. If she could get her mind to register, she might have a response other than being wide-eyed.

He hardly seemed to notice. “You’d kill me if I didn’t.” he muttered, before attempting to clear his throat. “So I had to.”

That triggered something. It burned the emptiness away, made her uncertain if she wanted to cry or hug him or punch the idiot in the face. “You had me worried.” She muttered, voice cracking just slightly. Crying. That seemed to be the choice her body made for her, despite the thought that she was already out of tears.

His expression softened, thumb brushing her cheek to wipe away a tear. “Didn’t mean to.”

He shifted so he could lie on his back, though it removed one of the points of contact between them. Noticing it, or seeming to, he squeezed her hand. And refused to let go.

“It was bad planning.” He muttered. “I had to make sure the Chargers made it—“ A small, bit of panic crossed his features, eyes full of worry as he looked to her, “they _did_ make it, right?”

Her expression fell slightly. She knew that he would willingly die for them—that he wouldn’t regret it if their lives went on from the loss of his. She knew it just as well because she would have willingly died for her family, the Seekers, just as he would for his. And she knew she would die for the Inquisitor. But knowing didn’t make it any easier. She had finished grieving when he returned. “They did.” Was that _actually_ bitterness on her tongue?

He sighed in relief, shoulders losing tension. Good, he was only going to make his injuries worse at that rate. Always worrying over his men. They were his responsibility, his charges to care for. She knew it was mad to be upset over this, as she hadn’t been the only one to grieve. But she _had_ grieved, been completely shattered inside at the thought of losing him. At knowing she would never see him again. She had hardened around the injury, but the moment he was here, alive, the walls disintegrated. And he—

“I never meant to make you cry.” He said, taking her hand and pressing a tender kiss to it despite the painful cuts on his lips.

“I should hope not.” She scoffed.

He was quiet a moment, looking at her with a puzzled expression. It was a couple minutes before he managed to speak. “The whole time, I kept thinking of how to get back to you. That I _would_. Probably should’ve thought of what to say.”

She looked at him for a moment, not realizing that her thoughts were so visible. At least not all of them were. She sighed, bringing his hand up to kiss his knuckles. “You made it back.” Her words were whispered against his skin.

“I always will.” His voice was soft, and she looked up to see an adoring smile on his face. Sweet and kind. One reserved for her, and that she feared she might never see again.

And it still might be taken from her. She swallowed, shaking her head. “It is a lovely thought,” She muttered, hardly wanting to look him in the eyes, “but we both know we could be taken at any time.”

He visibly twitched at that, expression immediately turning somber. “I . . . I’ll do everything I can to keep that from happening.”

Her lips twitched instinctively, a small smile at his resistance. “As will I. Though, some things are . . . unavoidable.” With a sigh, she leaned forward to press her forehead against his. Still warm, his breath mingling with hers. “I am grateful that the Maker did not take you from me.”

He chuckled, a vague imitation of his normal mirth but present nonetheless. “He tries and He’ll wind up with a foot in His divine ass.” There was a laugh, then a small pause. A quieter voice, less sure and cocky. “He won’t take me yet.”

His words actually encouraged a smile, and a move that the nurses would be sure to lecture her on. Slowly, carefully, she kicked off her boots and slid into the space beside him. He tried to accommodate, but it was minimal, and essentially ineffective.

“I love you.” She whispered, fingers gently running through his hair. “No matter what happens, know that.”

He looked at her, searching her expression for something before the return of his smile. “I know.” He muttered, lacing their fingers. “Perhaps it sounds too much like your books, but that love was the only thing keeping me going when I thought,” he paused and swallowed, “when I thought I might not make it.”

She was quiet, fingers idly running through his hair before shaking her head. “You should rest.”

He groaned. “Pretty sure I’ve slept a month.” A rather pathetic look crossed his features, unsurprisingly leading to the next comment: “When can I leave?”

She tried for a pointed look, which really was more of a glare. “When the healers clear you, and no sooner.”

He frowned, but seemed to realize that there was no arguing with stubbornness incarnate. “Fine, I’m resting.” He muttered.

There was a pause. “I would stay, if you don’t mind?”

He squeezed her hand, shifting slightly to increase the contact between them. Voice edged with a plea, he looked at her. “I don’t want you to go.”

There were soft whispers before they fell asleep there. Mixes of common and Tevene and Orlesian. Words of wishing and comfort and love. A small joy in the homecoming provided by the Maker, or even a defiance of His attempt to deny it. Murmurs and touches. An arm wrapped around the waist, head resting on a shoulder. The gentle move of fingers through hair, the brush of fingers over skin.

And then rest.

 


End file.
